The Writing's on the Wall
by Lisha Goldberg
Author’s Note: Hello, Rooftop Readers! I don’t normally do this, but I wanted to prepare you for this month’s story. What you are about to read is a giant leap away from my usual style of comedy fanfic. With all that’s been happening with George, I decided to take a more spiritual approach in my writing. This tale is a mix of fact and fiction, which I hope you’ll enjoy.
To give this tale a more authentic flavor, I’ve used some foreign words in both Hebrew and Yiddish (a language that closely resembles German). Don’t fret if you don’t speak these languages! I’ve translated the words directly in the story.
A word about pronunciation: Wherever you see a “ch” in a Hebrew word, those letters do not represent the “ch” you would hear in a word like “child.” Unfortunately, the “ch” letter does not exist in the English alphabet. So, here’s the best way I can explain the pronunciation. Ready? Imagine the sound you would make if you tried to gargle without water in your mouth. If you can’t do that, then I would say that the English letter “k” comes closest to the Hebrew “ch.”
To you, dear George, I send my best wishes for a Refuah Shelema, a speedy recovery!
And for you, Rooftop Readers, more comedy next time, I promise!
“Vas ist das?!” Reb Mendel exclaimed. “What’s going on? A whole forest this machine is printing!”
“Gom Kane,” Reb Nachem agreed. “My machine also is chewing up trees.”
Reb Mendel looked up from the printer. "Reb Nachem, do you know what is going on that we should be receiving so many e-mails?"
Reb Nachem stroked his long, silvery beard and slowly shook his head. "The last time I remember seeing so many mysterious messages, it was January 1, 2000. And before that, it was, what, almost twenty-one years ago?" His eyes widened in alarm. "You don't think it's happened again? Another--"
"Chas Veshalom!" Reb Mendel roared. His peyos, two ringlets of uncut hair, flapped wildly around his face. "Heaven forbid you should even think such a thing!"
Reb Nachem spread his hands and shrugged. "I am sorry, my friend. It's just so unusual that we receive so many messages, and do not know the reason behind them. There's no war going on now, right?"
Reb Mendel shook his head.
"No great leader that we know is G-d forbid ill, or worse."
Reb Mendel continued shaking.
"No earthquakes, fires, or other major disasters, natural or manmade?"
Reb Mendel's shaking made both rabbis dizzy.
"Nu, Reb Nachem? What do you think?"
Reb Mendel shrugged, and his eyes returned to the PC. "Fifteen more messages," he reported.
Reb Nachem checked his own machine. "Nineteen new ones."
Oblivious to the two older rabbis, the middle-aged Reb Yosi booted up his own PC and logged on. “Four hundred and fifty two messages!” He exclaimed. Without reading the contents of the e-mails, he clicked on each message and sent it to the printer.
“How far we’ve come,” he mused, as twelve more messages appeared. Back in 1968 or so, the Rabbonim Ha’Kotel, the Rabbis of The Wall, had the simplest of jobs. “The Clean-Up Crew,” as Reb Gershon used to call them. Every night, just after midnight, “The Clean-Up Crew” would quietly remove the messages inserted into the cracks and holes of Israel’s most precious site, HaKotel HaMaaravi, The Western Wall.
Not the Wailing Wall, Yosi firmly reminded himself. In the late sixties when Jews were finally allowed to freely visit The Wall, they cried as they poured out their hearts to Israel's holiest relic. Hence, the unfortunate nickname.
No. The Kotel, The Wall, is not a place of mourning. It is a place of hope. And hope is as indestructible as The Wall itself.
Reb Yosi closed his eyes as he tried to envision The Wall in its original glory. Four Walls had enclosed the courtyard of The Holy Temple. Built by King Solomon, The Holy Temple housed The Holy of Holies, the Ark of the Covenant. Inside the Ark were two sets of the Ten Commandments, both written by the Hand of The Holy One Himself. Moses smashed the original set when he discovered that his people were worshipping an idol. The Holy One forgave the Children of Israel and created a second set, identical to the first.
The Temple was destroyed and rebuilt, and then destroyed again by the Romans in 70 C.E. (Common Era. Others might call that 70 A.D.). Only The Western Wall of the Temple survived both onslaughts. Reb Yosi smiled. Ironically, the remaining Wall was also the humblest area of The Holy Temple. This Wall was built by donations from the poorest of citizens.
Today, visitors from around the world flock to The Wall to slip messages between its cracks. The faith, color, and gender of the visitor is not important. Tradition says that all messages placed into The Wall are delivered immediately to The Holy One.
Most visitors think that when they place a message into The Wall, it remains there forever. Unfortunately, it is physically impossible for one Wall to hold that much paper. Again Reb Yosi smiled to himself. Perhaps the Great Wall of China does not have this issue. But The Wall of Jerusalem cannot be made larger. So, every evening, the rabbis who work the Clean-Up Crew remove the slips of paper and place them into buckets. Once all the papers are collected, the rabbis say a prayer and burn the messages.
Reb Yosi opened his eyes when he realized that the room had become silent. "Add paper to printer," his PC instructed him. The rabbi sighed and completed the task. He removed the pile of printed messages, and took care not to read them as he placed them on the "Ready to go to The Wall" table. The rabbis make it a point to ignore the contents of the messages. After all, it would be like reading someone’s private mail, a crime in Israel as in most other parts of the world. What’s more, it is unethical.
Reb Yosi returned to his PC and the additional forty messages that awaited printing. He had been doing this job for twenty years, and still he marveled at the changes that technology brought to his daily responsibilities.
First came the telephone. This was before Yosi’s time at The Wall, of course. Still, it was a part of history that Yosi could not ignore. It had been Reb Gershon’s responsibility to have the phone installed sometime in the early seventies. Leave it to Reb G to find the only red telephone in all of Israel. Rumor has it that Reb Gershon wanted to hang the bright red phone on The Wall itself. “Just in case You-Know-Who has need of it,” he said.
Reb Yosi chuckled and shook his head. In the end, the “Holy Hotline” was installed inside the rabbis’ office, located just to the left of The Wall.
Word quickly spread about the wonderful red telephone, and soon the calls started coming in from around the globe. Rabbis worked in 24-hours shifts to answer the phone, transcribe the message onto paper, and insert it into The Wall. This service was free to the public, relying on the kindness of donations to keep it going.
Unfortunately, the red telephone also presented the rabbis with a moral dilemma. Obviously, if they were transcribing messages, the messages were no longer anonymous. The rabbis resolved this problem by alerting callers to this fact, but assuring them that they would do their best to forget the message as soon as it was written.
In the late seventies, on the same day that Yosi received his Smicha, his rabbinical degree, the first fax machine arrived at the rabbis’ office. Initially, the bright red machine thrilled the Kotel rabbis. The new technology enabled rabbis to avoid reading the private messages. All they had to do was retrieve the print-out and fold it immediately.
The rabbis soon realized that the new technology had caused yet another complication. Faxed messages arrived on full-sized pieces of papers. The Wall only offered small cracks for notes. Reb Yosi smiled as he remembered the very first Kotel meeting he attended. The rabbis wrestled for hours over the issue. Obviously, they could not deepen the cracks in The Wall. Nor could they build an addition of any sorts. Some favored a system of identifying the largest cracks and holes and reserving these spots for faxes only. Others spent hours demonstrating ways to fold paper to make it as small as possible. But the evening really heated up when Reb Gershon suggested that they cut out a piece of stone and place the messages in there.
“But you can replace the stone on top of the messages,” he argued. “It will not cause permanent damage to The Wall.” In a most un-rabbi like performance, Reb Nachum actually made a rude noise in Reb Gershon’s direction. Reb Gershon responded with a ruder noise and a gesture. As the gesturing and the noises increased in intensity, the evening promised to get a little more interesting than the rabbis had originally intended.
Baruch Hashem, bless G-d, for the brilliance of Reb Isaac, the leader of the Kotel rabbis. “Brother, please. The answer is clear. Modern technology causes the problem? Modern technology will provide the solution.” What did this mean? It meant the arrival of the brand new photocopier with the bright red Reduction button. And the paper cutter with the swinging red arm to cut off the excess paper from the reduced-sized copies.
The new system worked beautifully for several years. Until one bleak day in December 1980. The faxes started arriving in such numbers that the poor rabbi on duty that day, Reb Mendel, had to call for “back-up.” Within a few hours, the fax machine began to fail. An emergency purchase was made, and then another, as the messages continued to pour in all day and all night and again into the next day, with no signs of stopping.
The rabbis could not imagine what had happened. Surely, it must be that an illustrious scholar was ill or, had, G-d forbid, died. But no one had heard of such an incident. Or, perhaps it was a great disaster, a flood or an earthquake. The rabbis scoured the newspapers, but nothing came to mind. They quizzed their friends, phoned the heads of universities, and even, (yes, it’s true!) asked the young Reb Yosi to check his television, a habit he could not break from his secular days. To those who are born and raised in the ultra-Orthodox tradition, a television means the same thing as an empty glass to a thirsty man. A radio is the most sensible place if you need up-to-the-minute news, but even the trusty radio failed them. “Just music,” a disgusted Reb Gershon announced to the rabbis of the Kotel. “Every station, the same song by the same singer.”
The rabbis met far into the night as they pondered the mystery of the non-stop faxes. They had purchased two additional machines to handle the load, but even these could barely keep up. Reb Shimon complained that his finger had gone numb from punching the Reduce button on the copy machine. And Reb Gershon stood up and announced “I have blisters on my fingers from all that paper cutting!” Other rabbis voiced their grievances. “There’s a pile-up of messages,” Reb Nachem cried as he pointed to the towering stack of papers on the “Waiting for the Wall” table. “And the visitors are complaining,” Reb Shimon decreed, “that there’s no room left for their own messages.”
The wise Reb Isaac carefully listened to each complaint. When the rabbis finally settled down, the leader simply said, “Nu? So we shall buy a ladder.”
Clearly stunned, the rabbis contemplated this announcement. Finally, with head bowed, Reb Gershon tentatively raised a hand. “Pardon me, Reb Isaac. You want us to put the faxes on a ladder? You are saying that the ladder symbolically represents a stairway to The Holy One?”
Rabbi Isaac slammed his open hand against his desk. “What’s the matter, are you sitting on your brains? We climb up the ladder and we place the faxed notes high on The Wall. The space below we leave for the visitors to use.”
The rabbis squirmed, and some even turned a little red around the ears. Reb Gershon snickered. “A remarkable decision,” Reb G complimented his leader. The rest of the assembly nodded their assent. “But, dear Reb Isaac,” he shrugged, “That does not explain why we receive so many faxes.”
The rabbis cast their eyes downwards. Everyone knew the answer, but no one wanted to voice it aloud. Reading the messages would be a breach of trust between the sender and the Holy Recipient. But yet, something had to be done!
Reb Isaac slowly turned towards the tower of printed messages. “It seems,” he mused, “That there is a danger that this tall stack of messages could topple over. That would be a tragedy.” The rabbis furrowed their brows and tugged at their beards as they tried to follow their leader’s logic. “And it seems,” the rabbi continued, “that if this stack is in danger of toppling, perhaps it should be divided into several smaller stacks. That should eliminate any danger.”
Once again, Reb Isaac had proven his genius. Of course, it would not be proper to purposely read the messages. But, in the process of dividing the stack, should Reb Isaac accidentally read some of the words… well… it couldn’t be helped!
After sorting and stacking the messages to his satisfaction, Reb Isaac looked more puzzled than ever. “I must have been mistaken,” he whispered. “I was so sure that I knew.”
The rabbis shifted in their seats as they waited for his revelation. Finally, Reb Gershon raised his hand. “What is it, Reb?”
The rabbis had to lean forward in their seats and cup their hands to their ears, as their leader began to speak. “I dedicated my life to learning the names of every important scholar. All of them. Living or dead. Modern or ancient. And yet, here is one who escapes me.”
“Who is this scholar?” Reb Gershon gently prodded.
“John, son of Julia,” the old rabbi whispered. “Who was this Reb John who amassed such a following?”
From the back of the room, Reb Yosi felt himself go white, then red. He grabbed his bench to keep from falling.
“Reb Yosi, there is something you want to share with us?” Reb Isaac asked.
Yosi began to sweat. After all, what he was about to say would point to the gap between himself and these pious men. To his cohorts, Yosi would always be a Baal Teshuva, one who returned to the faith, not one who was born into it. Still. Everyone awaited his response.
Reb Yosi cleared his throat. “Uh, Reb Isaac. I, uh, I believe I know the identity of this John, son of Julia.”
The leader waited patiently as Reb Yosi steeled himself.
“He was not a rabbi, although he was a leader with a very large following. And he was not of the Jewish faith, although he inspired many of our people with his love of peace and humankind.”
“Indeed,” Reb Isaac nodded. “And who was this great man?”
“His name was John Lennon, Alav HaShalom, of blessed memory.”
Reb Isaac thought for a moment. “This name is not familiar to me. Perhaps you would explain then. He was a priest? A politician?"
Reb Yosi felt another blush creeping up his neck . “Uh, not exactly Reb Isaac. He was a rock n’ roll musician.”
Reb Isaac frowned. “Rock n’ roll? All this fuss over a hooligan? Has the world gone mad?”
Reb Yosi trembled. “Rabbi, can I share something with you?”
“Nu? So share.”
Slowly, Reb Yosi pulled a small object out of his pocket.
“A radio, Reb Yosi? You bring secular music into this office?”
“Please Rabbi, a moment of your time.”
Shakily, Reb Yosi turned on the radio and raised the volume.
“Vas ist los mit dir?” Reb Gershon exploded. “What’s wrong with you? This is the same song by the same singer they play all day every day now!”
“Please,” Reb Yosi whispered. “Just listen.”
All eyes focused on their leader. “So, we will listen,” Reb Isaac agreed.
The rabbis closed their eyes and listened as the opening strains of Imagine filled the room. Because no one said a word when the song finished, Reb Yosi let the radio continue to play.
“Give peace a chance,” Reb Isaac nodded. “A beautiful sentiment, no?”
Reb Yosi turned off the radio. “Rabbi, what should we do?”
“What should we do?” the rabbi mused. “Now we should say a prayer of peace for a man of peace and for the family he leaves behind, and for the comfort of all those who mourn him.”
Reb Yosi smiled as he remembered how terrified he felt when he spoke up all those years ago. But it earned him a new respect among his peers. And, for the Beatles, it added a group of most unusual fans. Granted, the Kotel rabbis did not go out and purchase records or start attending concerts. But they did make an allowance for the rock n’ roll musicians who stood for more than just “hooliganism.”
So when the new mystery arose, at the end of 1999, the rabbis became very nervous. “Surely, this sudden outpouring of e-mails cannot also be for John, son of Julia?” For all the rabbis knew that the messages for John’s Yahrzeit, the anniversary of remembrance, came at the beginning of December.
“What should we do about these emails?” Reb Nachem asked.
“Get the ladder,” Reb Gershon advised. “We post these messages up high, too.”
Reb Nachem waved a pile of print-outs. “But what is the meaning of all these messages?” he cried.
As they did twenty years before, the rabbis sought answers from friends, newspapers, and radio. And at the whispered request of old Reb Isaac, Reb Yosi even turned on his TV.
Frustrated, the rabbis met to discuss the situation. “Well well,” Rabbi Isaac said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that I’m not as young as I used to be. And unfortunately, not as agile.”
The assembly nodded. Surely they had noticed these things. But what did this have to do with the current crisis?
Reb Isaac rose from his desk and began shuffling towards the tower of print-outs. “So, dear friends,” he began, “now that you ask me to approach the famous table to divide up this famous tower of print outs, well--”
And with that, old Rabbi Isaac bumped into the table. The rabbis held their breath as the stack of e-mails swayed, then toppled onto the floor.
Immediately, the assemblage jumped from their seats and rushed to pick up the papers. “And if, in the course of picking up papers, your eyes should stray…” the old man shrugged. “It cannot be helped.”
The rabbi watched as his followers replaced the print-outs on the table. “Nu?” Reb Isaac asked his followers.
“George, son of Louise,” Reb Mendel whispered. “Attacked by a madman.”
“Hmmm. This name is not familiar to me.” The old rabbi turned towards Yosi. “Reb Yosi, you of the red ears. You have something to say to us?”
“Reb Isaac,” Yosi stammered. “Reb Isaac, I uh, I saw something on the television. This man was a friend of John, son of Julia. He is gentle soul who does not follow our traditions, but whose faith in The Holy One has inspired others to seek Him.”
“Another rock n’ roller?” the rabbi asked.
“A shonde,” the rabbi sighed. "A shame and a disgrace that a man of God be assaulted by a Vilde Chaya, a wild animal. Come, let us say a Mi She Berach, a prayer of healing, for George, son of Louise.”
Things returned to normal at the Kotel until a new pile-up of e-mails arrived in May, 2001. Again, the rabbis of The Wall met to discuss this newest mystery.
“Nu,” Reb Isaac told his followers. “What is it scholars teach us? Scholars teach us that we can perform any action, even if it means breaking the law, if this action will preserve our health or our physical well being.”
“A sin to put yourself in harm’s way,” Reb Nachem agreed.
“Agreed,” said Reb Gershon. “But with all due respect, Reb Isaac. We are here to discuss this tower of mysterious e-mails, no?”
“Dear friends,” the frail rabbi began, “I am too old to be stacking piles and bumping tables. It would be sinful for me to attempt such a thing. But reading, thank God, I can still handle. Therefore, Reb Yosi, you who are much younger, I ask that you help me to preserve my health and bring me some of those e-mails to read.”
The rabbis waited quietly as their leader examined the messages. At last, the old rabbi looked up. “George, son of Louise,” Reb Isaac sighed. “Again The Holy One has seen fit to test this righteous musician.”
“Attacked again?” Nachmen asked.
“No,” Reb Isaac shook his head. “A most serious illness.”
“Rabbi, why would such a thing happen?” Reb Yosi asked.
The rabbi spread his hands. “Dear rabbis, what human can understand the motives of The Holy One? It is simply not possible. And dwelling on the impossible, that is a waste of time.” The old rabbi looked toward Reb Yosi. “Nu, Yosele, you will assist me again?”
Reb Yosi jumped to his feet. “Reb Yosi, you will get paper and pencils for everyone here?”
Reb Yosi nodded and ran to complete his task.
“We are the caretakers of The Wall,” Reb Isaac said. "Perhaps this gives us some pull with The Man Upstairs.”
Perhaps it did, who can say? But two months later, when Reb Yosi again ventured to turn on the television set, he felt himself grow cold. More stories of illness plaguing this most important musician. No one knows truth from rumor, or even where this musician is hiding. Perhaps still in hospital. Perhaps Hawaii.
With a tear in his eye, Reb Yosi headed out into the night. He wandered the streets of Jerusalem until he found himself at The Wall. The evening’s Clean-Up Crew had long since removed the day’s messages, and turned off most of the lights. Anyone with an ounce of sense should be in bed at this hour. Obviously, Reb Yosi was lacking in good sense.
And so was the stranger, who emerged from the shadows.
Heart pounding, Reb Yosi barely breathed as he prayed that the stranger did not see him. Surely, only a troublemaker would be out at this hour.
Reb Yosi watched as the stranger raised his head and strained to see the top of The Wall. What is he doing? Figuring out how the soldiers patrol the top of Wall? Looking for a place to plant a bomb?
But no. Surely not. For the stranger had placed a tentative hand on the cool stones. And now, a sweet kiss before again gazing upward.
Reb Yosi nearly cried out in surprise. Quietly, respectively, the rabbi approached the stranger. "Shalom, Chaver," the rabbis said softly.
"Shalom," came the gentle reply. "But I'm afraid that's all I speak of your language."
"In that case, Peace be with you my friend. What brings you to The Wall at this late hour?"
Reb Yosi could sense the stranger's smile. "Don't know, really. Just felt the need to be here tonight."
Yosi nodded as he too, smiled. Such a peaceful aura about this man. "Is this your first time in Israel?"
"First time, yeah. I was supposed to come here in 1965, you know."
Reb Yosi waited patiently as the stranger's gaze returned to The Wall. "We signed the contract and everything. I remember that we were all pretty excited about seeing the Holy Land. We were all raised up on Bible stories, you know." The stranger shrugged. "Except they didn't want us. All of a sudden, they just cancelled the contract."
Reb Yosi felt his heart take a leap. It couldn't be. Could it? He felt his knees begin to tremble.
"Tell me friend," he swallowed, "Tell me. What profession are you in?"
The stranger laughed softly. "I'm a musician."
A cold sweat broke out across the rabbi's forehead. Indeed, in his secular years, he paid close attention, very close attention to these things. Only one group of musicians had ever been denied permission to perform in Israel.
"We wanted you," the Rabbi whispered hoarsely. "Believe me, all the young people in the country wanted you."
"You know who I am?"
The rabbi nodded. “Of course.”
"So if you wanted us, why did you break the contract?"
Reb Yosi sighed. "Believe me, friend, it was not an easy decision. But you have to understand the politics of the times. In 1965, we were still building our country." The rabbi stroked The Wall. "This Wall was just a dream for us. Jerusalem was a dream. Prior to 1967, only Muslims were allowed to visit this place."
"Oh yeah, I remember that bit. You annexed Jerusalem during the Six Day War." He turned towards the rabbi. "But what's that got to do with the Beatles?"
The rabbi nodded. "Our leaders were afraid of the affects that secular music would have on our young people. We wanted our children to focus on this dream. The dream of The Wall and Jerusalem. We could not have them chasing musicians across the country. Believe me, it is a decision that many regret."
The rabbi heard a soft chuckle. "Well, it only took about forty years, but I've finally heard the answer to that one. So we’ve got Israeli fans after all?"
Reb Yosi spread his hands. "You cannot imagine the effect you've had on my country." And the effect you've had on me, the rabbi thought. For it was this man, George, son of Louise, whose religious pursuits inspired Yosi to return to the religion of his own forefathers.
Eagerly, Yosi listened to his mentor’s words. "You know, it's funny," George said, "I feel very close to him here. Like he's hovering right above me."
"The Holy One's presence is strongest here," the rabbi agreed.
George laughed. "Oh, sorry. I don't mean to be disrespectful, or anything. I meant John. I feel my friend John here. But I don't think he ever came to Israel."
Despite the cool breeze, the sweat dripped down the rabbi’s back. He felt his knees tremble. "Perhaps not in body," the rabbi said. "But perhaps a piece of his spirit has found its way here."
"Do you think so? John wasn’t terribly religious."
Reb Yosi took a tiny flashlight from his pocket and swept the beam across the wall. “You see what I’m showing you?”
George hesitated. “I’m really not sure, to tell you the truth.”
“You know it is a tradition for visitors to fill the wall with messages.”
“And down here, at this level, The Wall is empty of messages. My job, you see, is to sweep up the notes that visitors leave behind. To make room for more notes tomorrow."
The rabbi smiled and pointed his light above their heads. “See up there?”
George squinted. “Looks like somebody didn’t do such a good job removing those."
The rabbi grinned. “That is my fault, my friend. You see, I am now the youngest caretaker of The Wall. It is my job to climb the ladder to retrieve those notes.”
"So you're gonna take them down tonight?"
"The rabbi smiled. "I have a little confession to make. I don't like heights. So when it's time to remove the notes up top... well... I'm not always so thorough. Some of those notes have been up there since December 1980."
“December 1980?” George frowned.
“And every December since then,” Yosi whispered.
"So old John's still up there then?" George smiled.
Reb Yosi dared to pat George’s arm. "Come, Chaver, my friend. It gets colder and you shouldn't be outside. Come, there's tea in my office just a few steps away."
"All right then," said George. "I'd enjoy talking with you. But first, I'd like to leave a note of my own, if that's okay with you."
"Listen, my friend," the rabbi said. “If you're feeling a little daring this evening, I could fetch the ladder and you could place your note amongst John's. I assure you, I won’t be so quick to remove it. Especially because…"
Reb Yosi blushed in the darkness. “Because I think perhaps that The Holy One would want to keep a Beatle autograph.”
George’s laugher rang out across the stone plaza. "Tell you what. I'll climb that ladder if you promise not to tell the wife."
The rabbi wagged a finger at the musician. "According to ancient law, you cannot bring a case to court unless there are at least two witnesses to the crime." Reb Yosi looked around. "I believe that there is only one witness and one criminal present."
George laughed. "In that case, I’m going to be extra wicked. Let me help you carry that ladder."
Recent studies say that people recover faster when someone prays for them, even if the patient is not aware that they are in someone else’s thoughts.
If you are inclined to pray, it is most important that you do it in the manner that is most comfortable to you.
To have your own message placed in The Wall in Jerusalem, all you need is Internet access. This service is free, easy-to-use, and it is open to people of all faiths. If you choose to give this a try, you will not receive any follow-up solicitations. Simply log on to www.aish.com or www.aish.org and scroll down until you find a link to The Wall Camera. Click on the link and follow the instructions. You can write any message of your choosing. It is traditional to refer to a person by their first name and by their mother’s first name, such as George, son of Louise, but it is more important that you write whatever brings you the most comfort.
Lisha Goldberg is a Technical Writer/Website Developer for a Massachusetts-based insurance company. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.
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